


Naked Brunch

by dexwebster



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Aprons, Dom/sub, Domestic, Final Fantasy Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 21:10:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14269602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexwebster/pseuds/dexwebster
Summary: From theprompt it was written for:Ignis, naked, except for his apron. Ignis is reluctant, but he really can't say no to Noct.





	Naked Brunch

**Author's Note:**

> It should probably have a less goofy title, but I think Ignis would appreciate the pun enough that I can't bring myself to think of something different.

When Ignis stirs the covers have been dragged from his edge of the bed, and he rolls over already half exposed and chilled in the morning air. He manages to tuck back in under the available edge, shoving his frigid toes out of the cold and enjoying the warmth of Noct's body curling around his back. 

Ignis' comfort is short-lived as the blankets are drawn away again by rustling on the far side of the bed.

It's a common annoyance these days. The king-sized sheets are meant to accommodate the bed and its king, not the king and his three closest retainers, particularly when one of them is the size of two and even the smallest of them manages to occupy enough bedding he might as well be. Ignis, unwilling to suffer the stifling consequences of sleeping in the middle and of both normal size and blanket-sharing disposition, is ever the odd man out. 

He wouldn't give it up for the world.

A firm tug at the blankets grants him nothing but resistance and Gladio's eye half-open. The blankets are a mountain on top of him, spikes of blond hair peeking above the duvet's edge along his chest. Wherever Prompto had started his night he has ended it laying full bodily on top of Gladio. 

"I don't suppose you're getting up?" Ignis says. 

From under the blankets comes a muffled, "No." 

"Is that so?" 

Gladio shrugs; the mountain ripples. "Pinned down, see? No way I can move." As if he couldn't rise as he is and go for a jog still carrying Prompto. Left to their own devices they're both reasonably early risers. Together, however. . .

"You bring out the worst in each other in this, I hope you know that," Ignis says as he sits up and swings his feet to the floor.

For both general sanity and public appearances they all have their own rooms, if only by technicality in Prompto's case. The only space he seems to require to experience any sense of solitude is that behind his camera. Home is wherever he rests, and he rests wherever they are. He likely has more things spread between the other's apartments than he does in the ones that are nominally his own. Ignis, to his own detriment at the moment, is not so free with his belongings. The downside of spending the night in Noct's room unprepared: his clothes from last night are in a rather incriminating array across the rooms of the royal suite, and everything else is down the grand hall in his own apartments, an onerous distance and not one he can travel in his current state.

His consideration is interrupted by a ring of warmth curling around his hips and the glimpse of Noct's dark hair under his arm. They're all in the same boat then this morning: awake yet unwilling to give up their moment of peace and the warmth they'd kept under the covers—until Ignis was left with no covers at all, anyway. 

"You're leaving?" 

"As soon as I determine where my clothes are. I can hardly manage the breakfast you requested if I stay."

"Who needs 'em?" 

"Grease splatters. I would prefer not to face the cooktop unprotected." He's half-expecting Noct to offer something of his own.

"You've got an apron," Noct says as he begins to kiss the tender skin of Ignis' side, a sensation that robs him of any resentment towards Gladio's resistance to rising. "A whole pile of them." 

Ignis leans his elbows on his knees—how can be expected to stand against that? He's forced to swallow down the lump in his throat before he can speak. "Your Majesty's powers of observation are unparalleled." Noct truly is an observant and incisive opponent, unafraid to ferret out and use any possible weakness. "To what end, may I ask?"

"Do I need one?"

"Whatever you might need I would hope I could give it." It never fails to feel like a grave admission, no matter how many times and how many ways Ignis makes it. Noct makes a noise like a purring cat against his hip, then there is a sudden chill at his back, a rustle of the blankets.

"Okay, it's cold out there. Go make me breakfast, Specs." 

Ignis rises, a touch gingerly courtesy of Prompto's concerted effort to put Noct's headboard through the stone wall last night. He's fully prepared to deliver a teasing earful regarding Noct no doubt seeking solace under the covers at the same time he orders Ignis into the cold. When he turns, though, Noct is grinning up at him, sleepy and beautiful. His head is all that's visible, hair shining blue-black across the stark white sheets. An army of retorts die happy deaths on Ignis' tongue. 

"Shall I attend to anything else while you're giving orders?" The tone at least holds a proper amount of sarcasm even if his heart doesn't. 

"Shower later," Noct says. "You smell good."

Ignis gives Noct a deferential tip of his head. If he doesn't answer because he doesn't trust his voice at least he can consider his reputation for being of few words well-tended.

Gladio's eye slits open again. "Sucker."

"The Shield of the King is 'pinned down,'" Ignis points out as he puts on his spectacles. "By Prompto."

"He's got a point," Noct says over the muffled protest from under the covers. 

Helpfully with Gladio occupying Noct's attention Ignis can escape to the kitchenette off the main sitting room unwatched. On his way he recovers the singlet he wore under his dress shirt from the bookshelf, his trousers in a puddle in front of the sofa where they'd been stripped from him.

He holds them for a moment, and even weighs putting them on. He's sure Noct would not begrudge him. 

Ignis will give his life and loyalty for his king, and all that and more for Noct, the bounds of which are lovingly tested by the whimsical edge Noct's requests often take in private. 

Not that Noct has technically made a request. 

He often doesn't need one of those either. 

Ignis prides himself on anticipatory service. 

With a pointless glance out the picture windows, he drapes the trousers and shirt over the arm of the sofa. There's no building as tall as the spire of the Citadel in what remains of the old city center, and those beyond it lie empty. For the moment he is alone.

Noct was exaggerating the state of his aprons; he has only three. He chooses the heavy black one in the hopes of some measure of protection, a decision he second-guesses when he drapes the thick fabric over his neck. Even without the treatment he'd received last night he would be sensitive. He is as a rule, and it is no small part of why he avoids such physical exposure, a vulnerability Noct is well aware of. He knows all the ins and outs of Ignis' foibles and weaknesses—as they all know each other's. Which is also why Ignis ties the apron around the front, all too aware of the probability of enterprising hands loosing a knot in back without him knowing. 

He takes a moment to breathe carefully and slowly as drafts of air swirl around against skin that's seldom exposed, then sets about preparing the breakfast he planned. He turns the oven on straightaway. It's a welcome if finicky tool, the product of modifications to turn existing quarters into full apartments while the palace kitchens lie in a rubble heap. 

To cook in bare feet is unusual, but not enough to be distracting despite the chill of the hard flagstone. 

The apron is a. . .peculiar experience. The cold air rolling out of the bottom of the refrigerator against his legs when he opens it, the coarse twill's gentle abrasion everywhere the air does not touch, they are a level of stimulation he could not deal with on a daily basis, not so. . .loose, so uncontrolled. He is adrift, swaying and sensitive in the breeze, and must anchor himself in the meditative rock of his knife on the cutting board, cracking egg after egg. 

Days ago, long before any mention of the apron, Noct had asked him to ensure their schedules were clear for a quiet night and morning, a brief respite from the turmoil that still rages in the world as the last vestiges of the Empire collapse and Eos rebuilds. Capricious clothing demands notwithstanding, the opportunity to cook a large indulgent, breakfast for the four of them is a welcome method of offering care when their preferred methods don't come quite so easily to him. Breakfast will be pancakes with berry compote for the sweet tooth Gladio won't admit he possesses, frittata because Noct finds it too difficult to pick out the vegetables to make it worthwhile, two flavors of sausage, both by Ignis' choice although one is hotter than he would prefer. Prompto has a broad palate, a taste for spice, and a reluctance to ask for anything for himself. 

At least now that Ignis is up and moving about in a warming kitchen he's rather comfortable. 

His comfort is short-lived at the sight of Gladio emerging in his jeans and tank top from last night, as if to taunt Ignis with his ability to do so. 

"Is it wise to leave the two of them alone and expect they'll make it out of bed?" Ignis says, doling a batch of pancakes out onto the griddle.

"You think I'm some kind of amateur? I threw Noct in the shower."

Ignis watches Gladio round the counter to lean an elbow on Ignis' shoulder and eyes the dangling fingers warily. He's disappointed he's finished his knifework. Gladio isn't one to let an opportunity like this pass by, but the line between incurring Ignis' annoyance and his wrath is fine, and risking his cooking is a well-known way to cross it. If he can stay sufficiently occupied Gladio will have no opportunity left. 

"So's the kitchen working out okay?" Gladio says.

"The oven's a bit temperamental regarding temperature. Beyond that no complaints."

"That's about how it's sounded for the other ones that got fitted too. There've been questions about a second round, but I don't know it's worth doing if we don't have people to fill 'em. There's a lot of work that could be getting done."

"Quite," Ignis agrees, and they fall into discussion over the headache-inducing list of repairs. Eventually Gladio turns to lean back against the counter beside the stovetop, and Ignis cooks round after round of pancakes while they discuss how to prioritize their limited resources, whether it would be better to restore more living quarters on an as-needed basis and focus rebuildings efforts elsewhere in the city, or plan now for a fully-occupied building in the future while the process is at its most efficient.

When the platter is piled high, he unthinkingly asks Gladio to take a step back so he can get into the oven. He takes the frittata out, and turns the oven off, replacing the pancakes in it to keep warm. 

"You'd wondered how the oven was performing," Ignis says, waving towards the frittata with a mitted hand. 

"Yep. Looking pretty good," Gladio says easily. "The tart's not bad either." And in that solitary moment when Ignis is standing back with the oven closed and without his hands on a tool, he gives Ignis a stinging slap on the backside and steps away. 

Ignis grabs at the counter in his shock: the sting of knowing he was lured into a false sense of security with _logistics_ is much worse than one modest smack. Weaknesses, indeed. "The one on the counter or the one taking liberties he should know better than to take?" he says after a deep breath, pulling off his oven mitts. "And it's a frittata." 

"I was talking about the food, but I'm not gonna turn down a compliment." 

Gladio is alight with the same friendly antagonism as sparring as he strolls away, and it brings the same spark of pleasure in the pit of Ignis' stomach. Balance between them isn't equilibrium so much as a seesaw of give and take, and Gladio's arrogance is always as annoying as it is attractive, the first step on two diverging paths: slapping such an attitude out of his smart mouth, or giving into it entirely.

"When you receive so few I suppose you can't afford to be choosy." 

Gladio takes a seat at the table, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "I guess if I got as many as you I'd be a lot pickier, huh?" He gives Ignis a long look up and down that as feels as strong a touch as his hand. Ignis had resented the charisma that let Gladio flatter so skillfully in their youth; now it brings the same weightless anticipation as being aloft in Ignis' stomach, waiting to see how far he might fall.

Ignis is left speechless until Prompto shuffles out in a faded tee with the sleeves cut off, well oversized—once one of Gladio's, most likely. The hole at the arm dips down to show the curve of his ribcage as he stretches lazily, singing, "That smells _a-mazing_."

To Ignis it is akin to being presented with a picture-perfect pastry in a bakery window: hunger, appreciation for fine craftsmanship, and the necessity of preventing himself from needless indulgence at an inopportune moment. 

Prompto is oblivious to the temptation he poses as he drapes himself against Ignis' bare back, pressing a few nuzzling kisses to Ignis' neck above the loop of the apron. Unlike Gladio, he doesn't presume to mention Ignis' deshabille. His opinion makes itself known all the same in the heft of him nestled against Ignis through only Prompto's thin gym shorts, and it is evident he too hasn't showered, unfairly so. The scent of their bed lingers, mouthwatering in a respect completely unlike the savory-salt of the cooking meat.

Because Ignis apparently isn't content with engaging in only one form of masochism, he swirls a clean teaspoon through the simmering pot of berries and holds it up to his shoulder for Prompto to close his pink mouth around. 

"You didn't give me anything," Gladio jibes from the table as Prompto moans in pleasure.

"As I remember you snuck a sample on your own," Ignis says, though he does swirl another clean teaspoon through the simmering berries and hands it to Prompto. "Take that to him so he'll stop whining, please." 

Ignis expends a great deal of effort in turning the sausages over in their pan as Prompto, his own spoon still turned upside down in his mouth to clean every trace of compote, holds up the one intended for Gladio. 

The small island is a boon when faced with the terror Ignis remembers from being a much younger man: while his body has not yet betrayed him it's only a matter of time. Desire aches in him fiercely, a weak spot in his meager defenses that the three of them prod relentlessly simply by virtue of their existence. 

It would be easy to say he's becoming aroused against his will, but it is not against Noct's will and so he cannot say it is truly against his own. A sucker, Gladio called him, a misnomer that implies an ignorance of one's situation. The depths of the carnality he works so hard to control are so easily plumbed as to be laughable. To be sure, Ignis has walked into his humiliation with his eyes wide open

Noct does unfortunately know him all too well. 

"You want me to set the table?" Prompto says, suddenly beside him as he drops the dirty spoons amid the dirty dishes piling in the sink.

"If you would."

Prompto has managed the plates and silverware, and Ignis is dispensing the last of the pancake batter when Noct finally emerges. Sweatpants and a t-shirt, the most covered of all of them, of course.

He's shameless in plastering himself to Ignis' side, and his obvious pleasure as he runs an appraising hand from Ignis' hip up across the apronstrings prods a pang of guilt out of him for even considering his trousers. Ignis turns into his arm—the pancakes will take a moment to set and concentrating would be impossible anyway. Noct's arm folds around his ribs, grazing the sensitive skin of his side on its way to rest in the small of his back. Noct's presence is a match put to the kindling Gladio and Prompto have lain, the shower's unnatural warmth wrapped around Ignis with only the soft cotton of Noct's t-shirt where the apron doesn't cover. 

"A bit hypocritical," Ignis says, tugging at Noct's shower-damp hair, though in truth it's entirely in Noct's purview, just as the wandering hands can hardly be called taking liberties when it's only what Noct is due. 

"Gladio's fault." 

"As per usual," Ignis says. 

Noct gives him a pleasantly routine kiss on the mouth. "How are you feeling?"

His entire bare back is exposed to Prompto and Gladio. Heat from the stove radiates against his bare side. 

"As if it isn't obvious." He half-turns in Noct's arm to flip and remove the last of the pancakes, then turns off the burner. "Now if you'll excuse me, breakfast is ready. Prompto, would you mind setting out the food as well?"

Noct frowns. "Where are you going?"

"As I no longer have need of an apron, I'd intended to dress," Ignis says, pulling his hand away, and when Noct catches his elbow his voice hardens. "You've had your fun, Noct. I'm hardly going to sit bare-assed at the dining table." 

Prompto has reached for the frittata and frozen on the other side of the island, wide-eyed at Ignis' tone. 

Guilt roils in him. "Forgive me, that was ungracious." 

Noct says, "It's okay, Prompto, go ahead." He turns Ignis back into the island, leaving Prompto and Gladio in a far off land of dishes clanking somewhere behind him and Noct filling his senses, pressing him into the edge of the island beside the stove.

"Hey," Noct says gently. "You know it's nothing we haven't seen before." 

"If the view were more equitable it wouldn't be half so concerning." Ignis' body is well-trained and well-maintained, but it is a tool in his service like any other. He's never seen a reason to pay it undue attention— _it_ , and not the armor of sophistication he's long made a habit of covering it in. He doesn't share Gladio and Prompto's enthusiasm for the aesthetics of their bodies, or even Noct's utter indifference.

"You should be proud."

"I am, on the whole. Preferably while wearing trousers."

"You're only proud of what you want to show off."

"You've never complained about my clothing choices before." 

"What are you so afraid of? You think I'd embarrass you for fun?" 

And for that Ignis has no answer. There is no justification for the nameless dread of vulnerability that exists even when he is surrounded by the few in the world in whom his trust is absolute, why he longs for armor even as his skin shamefully begs for touch of its own accord. 

Noct is silent, patient for a long moment, stroking Ignis' bare hip. 

Ignis licks his dry lips. "The food will get cold." 

He's looking down while Noct touches his face, his hip, cradling him in careful hands, and coaxes quietly, "Come on, Speccy. You think I asked you to arrange a morning like this for no reason? Or last night?" Ignis will never bring himself to grow a beard if it means he would feel less of Noct's thumb stroking his cheek. 

"You _should_ be appreciated. I want you to let us." 

The firm compassion and authority in Noct's voice stirs a craving that runs much older and deeper in Ignis than sexual desire, though when they flow together it's like streams jumping their banks to form a river he could drown in. 

To think the sullen teenager Ignis served should have become this. Noct has grown out of all of his worst qualities and into all of his best, and Ignis can only be grateful that the whim of the Astrals granted a reprieve to allow the opportunity. If he did not know in the fabric of his own soul how much he already loved him, this would be one of the moments in which Ignis fell. How inconsequential his petty insecurity is in the face of everything they are, how harsh a misjudgement to think his _discomfort_ was Noct's aim.

"Forgive me," Ignis says again.

"Hey, Gladio," Noct calls without looking away, "Ignis is worried about the upholstery, is it cool if he sits with you?"

"Noct," Ignis says, pleads if he's honest, though it is hopeless, helpless, he has no choice. No—he made his choice so long ago and so many times since that it's become habit, and that is where Noct's possession of him truly lives. 

"Will you go sit with Gladio for me?" Noct says, and Ignis chooses to kiss Noct's palm and nod, as he always will.

Ignis' skin goosebumps in the chill of Noct withdrawing, of the heat leaving his back as Ignis steps away from the island. Gladio already has pulled his chair out at an angle from the table to accommodate Ignis taking a seat on his leg.

"Stop gloating," Ignis tells him as he sits, laying an arm over his shoulders for balance. With Noct's weight already lain in Gladio's favor on their little seesaw Ignis' capitulation is all but assured. Eventually. 

"Didn't say a word."

"And I suspect the only thing stopping you is the position of my knee in relation to your testicles." Ignis stretches to pick a sausage link from Gladio's plate with his fingers.

"Y'know, if you're looking for sausage. . ." 

"Whatever meat ends up in my mouth while I'm at the table _will_ be eaten." 

It's hardly escaped his notice intellectually that Gladio is larger than he is—Gladio's larger than _everyone_ —but it is dizzying, to be so delicately perched and still secure, his thigh as solid as any chair Ignis could have. Ignis is too used to other days, other times, when Gladio's warm eyes gazing up at him mean a Gladio pliant and obedient for the evening, not this disorienting sensation of being above Gladio while Ignis is so exposed, the apron's illusion of protection punctured by rough denim. 

He leans again, this time attempting to cut himself a piece of pancake; breakfast will be a long process if he's truly expected to eat this way. Gladio tugs the fork from him and forgoes it altogether to tear a piece off by hand. This he eats himself. Then he tears another, folding just a bit of compote in, and holds it up to Ignis' mouth.

The facade of antagonism is pointless to maintain; when it falls away they are left with the rest of what's between them, a partnership with years of practice behind it. What could be a painful process is blissfully simple. Gladio alternates between feeding them, and keeps a hand spread broad and warm over Ignis' bare back to steady him, a sacrifice of his own function for Ignis' comfort. When Ignis isn't distracted by watching Gladio's hand, when his mouth is empty and he can speak, Gladio is there to fill it with neat, delicate bites. Holding onto the thread of conversation becomes impossible. 

The others scarcely seem to notice. Prompto and Noct carry on all by themselves, with Gladio offering only an occasional aside as he holds up another bite for Ignis to take from his fingers. As Gladio feeds him, he becomes. . .not self-conscious precisely, but the opposite, ashamed of his arrogance for thinking he would garner attention when the others are simply eating breakfast. Shameful that after his tantrum over being exposed he's now unhappy to be ignored. 

Gladio offers him water after a time, careful to let Ignis sip at his own pace.

"I appreciate your restraint in not making this messier than necessary," Ignis murmurs when he pulls the glass away.

"Y'know, with what you're wearing there's no reason I can't," Gladio says with a playful tug at the apron. "Take it off and then you'll have an excuse to worry."

Noct glances up from his plate. "Gladio, leave it."

The rebuke is casual but firm, and though it isn't directed at Ignis it lurches through him regardless. 

Prompto chatters on, not that Ignis would ever take it to mean he's uncaring. He's seen Prompto manage the same tone with the entirety of Gladio's hand inside of him. Gladio teasing Ignis at the dining table must barely rate. Noct has turned back to picking carefully at his frittata. Gladio is smiling as he folds a large slab of pancake into his own mouth.

It's as if the interruption never happened.

Ignis looks around the table at them, the empty chair he would otherwise fill. One wouldn't trouble themselves to draw a piece of art on display into a conversation no matter how much you admired it. Noct's awareness settles on him like a weight that drags his limbs down, splaying him wider as more of his tenuous control is wrested from him. 

"Kills me how you can be so shy about shit like this when I bet you're still loose from getting fucked last night," Gladio says, resettling him by the waist.

He has no way to explain that what is a stepping-stone between the two for Gladio is a canyon to Ignis, and spanning it doesn't carry anything like the rush of adrenaline and absolute control over his body that traversing a real tightrope does. Why it takes so much careful effort for him to be at ease here when in the dark, as a mass of limbs he can lose himself in, to offer himself for their pleasure is second nature. Subsuming his want to theirs is the easy part. 

"Hey," Gladio says as he frowns. "You wouldn't be you if you weren't." The corner of his mouth tugs crooked to pucker the bottom of his scar, still disarmingly attractive after all these years. "And if you were easy all the time it'd be like having another Prompto around."

" _Hey!_ "

As if Ignis still had any doubts Prompto was paying attention. "I don't think you can make any claims about Prompto's eagerness that don't apply to yourself as well."

"Didn't say they didn't." Gladio hauls the leg closest to him over his other thigh, spreads Ignis wide with the apron falling between his thighs and brushing against him, and he's pried open just as much by Gladio pouring desire into his voice with a confidence he could never hope to match. "But you already know I don't make a point of hiding how much I want you." Anything else he might say is cut off by the ugly screech of a chair scraping on the flagstone. Ignis looks over just as Prompto folds to his knees in front of Noct with an equally enviable grace and reaches for the waistband of Noct's sweatpants. 

Gladio says, "You're eating," and turns Ignis back with a knuckle on his cheek. It digs in when Ignis attempts to look again. 

"You're _intolerable_ ," Ignis says. How quickly enchantment evaporates when one is denied. Out of the corner of his eye he can still see Prompto's back and the soles of his bare feet.

"Open up," Gladio says, holding up a sausage link, and when Ignis attempts to bite he pulls away, leaving him chasing it, overbalancing as he leans forward. Gladio shifts to effortlessly redistribute his weight, and holds it up again. "Open your mouth."

When Ignis does as he's been asked, Gladio taunts him by pushing the whole link of sausage into Ignis' open mouth then withdrawing it, once and then again, a mockery of other pleasures. He leaves it resting on Ignis' bottom lip like he's a pet trained to let a treat rest on its own nose until it's signaled to eat. Ignis glares with frustration he can't voice when he knows Gladio would be swiftly corrected if he'd erred.

Shining in the bright morning light Gladio's eyes are the clear amber of melted sugar on its way to caramel, sweet and warm. "Go ahead."

Ignis' teeth tear into the taut casing like a feral animal instead of a trained one. Drippings spill into his mouth, herbal, spicy—the one he'd chosen for Prompto then. He gives it the due attention he didn't the first time, savoring the richness, even the building heat of the chili in the back of his throat as Gladio allows him each bite.

If he hadn't prepared the food himself he might believe it's all been laced with much more than ginger and cardamom and sage, that there must be a stronger aphrodisiac working in him than Noct's approval of his entertainment. Any hope or care for his dignity regarding the apron is a thing of the past under the full-scale assault of Noct's heavy breathing and the sounds of Prompto's wet mouth as Gladio hammers hard at the rest of his senses. 

Next Gladio offers a bite of pancake the purpled red of a fresh bruise and Ignis waits lewdly, patiently with his mouth open, his lips going dry and tacky in the air until he's granted permission, though he couldn't say what gives it. Something in Gladio's eyes perhaps. It's sodden with berries that burst into tart brightness in his mouth, dressed heavily to ooze when Ignis bites down, leaving a drop on his lip Gladio wipes away with his thumb and offers Ignis again. When a piece of frittata rests in Gladio's open palm Ignis bends to close his teeth around it, flicks his tongue out to clean a few bits left behind, shifting his hips against the harsh twill as tender skin fills and sensitizes. The food quickly becomes little more than a pretense for letting Ignis lick Gladio clean of flakes of pastry, smears of grease, the sweet, spicy warmth of the compote.

Gladio offers another swipe of the glistening sauce and groans, "Fuck, you look good like that," when Ignis takes it, leaving his mouth hanging even as Gladio slides two fingers in over his waiting tongue. There is a _rightness_ to being an open hole to be filled now. It is all sensation, and with the floodgates open to let it in Ignis is helplessly greedy for more. 

The sound of Noct moaning with pleasure will always draw his attention. When Ignis looks over this time Gladio makes no attempt to curb him. Indeed he turns Ignis out for a better look, rubbing his hand over the inside of Ignis' thigh. 

As they watch Noct with his head thrown back against his chair Gladio's hand drifts down from Ignis' back, teasing along the crease and then lower. Ignis exhales a soft moan of his own, a quiver of nerves. Gladio would be careful, but careful with Gladio's size and strength would still be emphatic, an intrusion of well-used flesh. 

"I know," Gladio murmurs, "I've got you."

Ignis sighs and leans into him. That much was never in doubt. 

Gladio continues stroking over skin that's still exquisitely sensitive, not with any real intent, simply to tease, to touch. "How's that?" he says, hardly a question when Ignis has tilted his hips to grant better access, presented himself. Gladio moves in time with the rhythm of Prompto at Noct's feet, of Noct's hand petting his hair. Even apart they might all move in concert, and Ignis, aching for the touch of something other than fabric that has outlived its usefulness, could be moving with them.

Gladio catches his wrist as he reaches to push the apron aside. "Yeah, Noct's not gonna like that." 

It would be bad enough without Noct's lazy glance over at his name, glassy-eyed and panting. He takes a moment to focus on what he's seeing, then frowns with a warning, " _Specs_."

Such simple chastisement sends a hot rush of humiliation over him, the real thing of a game they've only played at. He is suddenly wavering with only one foot on the ground and Gladio shifting under him, lifting Ignis' arm from over his shoulders. It's only right; the consequences of such a lapse ought to be swift and severe. His mind grasps at fragments through the dizziness to steady himself, trying to right itself from a tailspin, the profligacy he should never have allowed—the table will need to be cleared, dressing will be out of the question until that's done at least. . .

—only to find Gladio pinning both wrists to Ignis' back under his hand. 

Gladio pushes the apron higher up Ignis' leg with his free hand, drawing a shameful shiver. Ignis tugs fruitlessly at Gladio's grip. "Gladio, this is not necessary." 

"That's real cute, you thinking it's up to you." Gladio's free hand grazes over Ignis' leg as he looks at Noct. "Anything in mind?"

"You want Iggy too?" Noct says as he closes his fist in Prompto's hair, and laughs, "Yeah, I figured," when Prompto's response is an eager hum and nod. 

It's pleasure Ignis doesn't deserve after being so plainly selfish when Gladio has only doted on Ignis, when for all of Prompto's eagerness he hasn't twitched towards the tell-tale drape of his gym shorts. Ignis yanks again at his wrists. For his trouble he gets, "You heard him. You're Prompto's next," and Gladio hiking his knee up to hitch him in closer, folding Ignis' wrists higher, tighter against his back. "Pretty hot watching you losing it, though," says the man who's now preventing him from doing much of anything. It is not only a balm, cool water pouring over the burn of shame, it is a gift. Ignis will be kept where he is wanted, used how he is wanted, guarded from the need for self-control. The bones of Ignis' wrists grind as the iron grip tightens, holding him fast against the riptides of doubt that might sweep him away. 

Though Gladio has eyes only for Noct and Prompto, he's careful to obey the bounds marked by the apron, damn him, idly stroking the expanse of Ignis' inner thigh up to the hollow of his hip and no more, mere inches from his cock. Ignis has been rescued from his moment of panic so quickly his body hadn't a chance to falter, but there is no shame in him for that now, not when he is at the mercy of his protector. 

Ignis can only rock against the useless fabric of the apron as he and Gladio watch—who he envies more at this moment is impossible to say. Gladio clamps his hand like a vise on Ignis' thigh to force him still and growls, "Settle down," the gentlest of _or elses_ when Ignis has been freed from obedience. It feels too good to be real hurt, though more than enough to bring Ignis' futile clenching to a shuddering stop. His cock betrays him with an eager throb under the apron that makes Gladio give a pleased hum Ignis might call purring if it were the sound of a couerl and not a housecat. He squeezes hard enough to punch the breath out of Ignis' chest, and then begins to knead the flesh in large handfuls over and over, leaching the tension from Ignis' muscles with a harsher pleasure.

It's impossible to know simply from watching Noct how close he is; he's seldom effusive, more one to soak up pleasure than shout it. The telling of it is all in Prompto kneeling up, redoubling his efforts, hard and fast, and Noct falls silent, only steady panting. Ignis knows too well what the sensation of Noct's cock growing harder in his mouth before he comes is like, he can practically taste it. Gladio must too: his hands tighten, his breath rough but measured as Noct's hips lift off the chair, a few thrusts into Prompto's mouth right at the end that Prompto lets roll through him like waves. 

Prompto stays there when Noct has done moving and melted back down into his chair, watching them through the filter of half-closed lashes. He pats Prompto's shoulder, and for a moment after he pulls off Prompto is hunched over like he's pain, clinging to Noct's waist like he's drowning. Then they are bent together, his face in Noct's hands, Prompto laughing at whatever Noct has whispered to him. 

"Can you make some room for when he's done trying not to come in his shorts?" Noct says with a glance at Gladio, and Prompto groans, burying his face between Noct's thighs. His pained arousal is a siren call; Ignis would just as soon fall to the floor and end Prompto's misery as his own. When he moves it is Gladio hoisting him up to slide back and get Ignis' other leg over his own, an arm over his collarbone to pin him back and catch his wrists tight between them. 

"It's gonna be a minute," Prompto chokes out. 

"That's fine," Noct adds with a teasing gleam in his eye. "You're not in any rush, are you, Ignis?"

"He'll be just fine," Gladio says in Ignis' ear, grabbing another handful of his thigh with his free hand. It's no match for the sight of Prompto crawling between Gladio's feet. The loose collar of Prompto's shirt is even more enticing than when Ignis first saw him, Prompto grinning up at him with his wispy, unstyled hair covering his forehead and a freshly-fucked mouth, brushing kisses against Gladio's knuckles and the reddened patch of Ignis' thigh in a greeting before he begins fussing with the apronstrings. Ignis thrusts up against even that meager pressure, more than he's had all morning. Even the abrasion of the twill as Prompto heedlessly tugs at it is welcome, so much Ignis fails to notice Noct standing behind Prompto until he is a shadow bending over them. 

He tries to turn away—he's unwashed, hasn't so much as brushed his teeth—only to find himself gasping at Gladio's thumb and finger prodding the underside of his jaw. What he assumed was an attempt to kiss him is much more, and whatever remnants of his control could possibly remain are banished as Gladio holds him by the throat so Noct can tug his spectacles off. He is. . .reduced, undone. 

Noct watches him placidly, folding his spectacles and hooking them over the collar of his own shirt. He is untouchable and not because Ignis cannot touch. He is _immovable_ , no tension and all satisfaction. Begging for the very last of his armor back would grant Ignis nothing, he's sure of it, and he cannot name that knowledge peaceful when he's filled with so much want, but it is as it should be.

There is muttered cursing from the floor, and when Ignis drops his gaze Prompto's hair is only an indistinct halo as he frowns at the apronstrings, until Noct takes pity on his losing battle and flips the whole apron out of the way. 

"Oh, thank fuck," Prompto sighs. He holds the knot of it at his hip as he takes the head of Ignis' cock in his mouth with a delighted swirl of his tongue. Ignis' moan is thankfully modulated by Gladio's hand caging his throat. Noct bunches the fabric between his nipples first to brush both thumbs over them, drawing another sound from him—they are as exquisitely sensitive as the rest of him—and then to roll them between his fingers. 

Ignis' reticence to be the center of so much attention has always been more than propriety: with both of them on him his senses have gone from filled to flooded, overwhelmed. Noct's gentle touch begins to slide into a deep throb of squeezing and releasing pressure. 

Ignis has no defense against the intensity building. Devastated by the onslaught, he curls in, or tries anyway. There's no relief when it is all muscles on fire straining against their hands and bodies, his throat and arms caught and thighs pinned open while Prompto moans in pleasure around his cock as though he's another course to the meal. 

"You really love getting fucked, don't you?" Noct says.

The clamp on Ignis' neck squeezes so very gently. "Puts on a hell of a show too." 

As he always will when he has nothing else left, Ignis says, " _Noct_ ," his voice a rough, broken thing in his own ears, choked by the cage of Gladio's palm and his own fear.

Noct bends to kiss Ignis as he burns, his forehead, his open panting mouth. "Let it happen," Noct says in between lush, open-mouthed tastes of him, "we're not going anywhere." 

Although it feels like Ignis has already been pushed over the precipice and can now only wait to fall the moment must be longer than it seems—his cock throbs in Prompto's wet heat, his chest in Noct's hands, his throat in Gladio's, pulse after pulse of being fucked by all of them. Even with time to brace himself it still hits him with the force of a bolt of Noct's lightning, tearing him apart from the inside out as he writhes futilely for more of Prompto's mouth, _more_ heat, not reduced but purified by fire, with the parts of him Noct has no need of set aside and the rest a wanton plaything spread over Gladio's thighs. 

The heat is more than he can bear, Prompto's nose pressed against him, swallowing around him as Ignis comes down his eager throat. The sounds Noct takes from his mouth are shameless until they are drowned out by the rush of his own blood, the inferno blotting out the rest of his senses. He cannot see Noct as his vision greys but he can feel all of them. Feeling is all Noct has left him. 

Ignis trembles afterwards, his body nearly aching at the loss of tension, so disoriented he can hear talking but not words. The grey becomes black; his eyes are closed and he is too wrung out to bother opening them, to move. He has no need to worry when he's still being held. Indeed he's lifted with no effort of his own, scooped up under each thigh then jostled until he's cradled by the crook of his knees and under his back. 

He is able, as his senses return, to take stock as Gladio cushions a hand under his neck and lays him down in the warmth of another body. He is on the sofa between Noct's legs, Gladio sitting on the open cushion at their feet. Prompto has planted himself in Gladio's lap with not a moment to lose. 

"There's a blanket," Noct points out quickly, circling Ignis in his arms. 

Ignis sighs in contented exhaustion at the proof of Noct's life beating against his back. The absurdity of the apron still tied around him isn't lost on him. "I'm flattered you think I'd have the wherewithal to complain."

"Well, you know," Noct says as he begins working at the mangled knot of the apron ties. "I know how seriously you take upholstery." 

He knows a great deal more than that. Ignis is. . .entirely known. The thought doesn't hold quite the same terror it did when he braved the cold a few hours ago. For the moment his world has contracted to all he truly needs, the four of them sharing breath and food and pleasure, and there is no room or cause to hide in a sphere so small and safe, though he shied at the thought of loving something that felt like it could kill him, consume him. Yet all he's known in the world as intense as being enveloped by the three of them is power a human body isn't meant to hold, pain that was unimaginable. 

Yes, for better or worse so much it could kill him is precisely how Ignis loves. 

Behind him Noct snorts in disgust. "Prompto, what the hell did you do to this thing?"

"I was a little distracted at the time!" 

"Yeah, look at you," Gladio says. "Got yourself all worked up sucking off Iggy and Noct." 

"If you're gonna be jerk about it maybe I don't want you touching me," Prompto says, all petulance, completely at odds with the way his hips roll in Gladio's lap, grinding their cocks together through their clothes. "Maybe I'm gonna do it myself and make you watch." 

Gladio pulls him in tighter with both hands shoved down the back of Prompto's shorts, pushing them down over the swell of his ass. "You couldn't make me do anything even if I had one hand tied behind my back— _both_ hands." 

"I could make you come," Prompto says, and Gladio throws his head head backing laughing, full-bellied, just gorgeous. 

"Then get to it." His fingertips leave divots in Prompto's hip as Prompto's teeth scrape his throat. Their abandon is beautiful, infectious even when Ignis is already sated, and Prompto is luminous with pleasure at giving pleasure to all three of them. A hat trick, he likes to call it.

Noct grunts in annoyance at the apronstrings. 

"It's beyond hope, I'm afraid," Ignis tells him, moving to push himself up. "Let me—" The gap between them has widened to let Noct's shirt brush his back when his instinct is cut short by Noct's hand splayed through the apron. 

"Nah, I'm not going to lose to an apron if I have to pull something from the freaking Armiger," Noct says. "Stay, relax. Enjoy the show. Then we nap." 

"Why am I unsurprised?" Ignis says, but under the welcome weight of that hand and voice he leans back and, as he always will, lets Noct undo him.


End file.
